


Where there's Smoke...

by Ki_ru



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Advanced Technology, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Boys Kissing, Canon-Typical Violence, Criminal!Smoke, Drama & Romance, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mystery, Policeman!Lesion, Suicidal Thoughts, dark themes, some fluff and humour though!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-07-07 22:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19859299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ki_ru/pseuds/Ki_ru
Summary: Lesion, an ordinary enforcer, becomes intrigued by the so-called ghosts - criminals who have dropped off the grid - after a few personal encounters. Giving a specific one the benefit of the doubt, he soon finds himself confronted with a whole lot of awkward truths he's not ready to accept. Yet.Set in a fictional future in which society relies even more on technology and networks than it already does now.





	Where there's Smoke...

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, thank you very much to the person who made writing this possible. I had a blast and I hope all of you enjoy it as well! ♥♥

“There’s no one here.”

Lesion, unlike his partner, doesn’t holster his neutraliser at this declaration. The darkness of the serene warehouse betrays nothing and endless aisles of boxes stacked impossibly high look so much alike they seem like an optical illusion; standing in the middle corridor and gazing down the gaping length of the room is dizzying. Electronic parts of all kinds are hidden behind cardboard and plastic, simultaneously the most and least valuable resource in their city – technology permeates every aspect of their lives, yet the individual pieces lack worth. Competition is fierce and any product can be found cheaper elsewhere, which is why a break-in at a storage facility like this seems like an accident at best and an adolescent hazing ritual at worst. To steal any of this merchandise and come up with a net win, factoring in time, effort and equipment needed, the thief would have to make away with at least a handful of shelves.

It’s fishy. Especially in conjunction with all the other trespassing alarms in similar places over the past years. Lesion doesn’t believe the other rumours going around at the precinct: cats, faulty wiring, attempted insurance fraud, none of it convinces him. The others often bring up the fact that nothing gets stolen. But how would anyone be able to tell with this ludicrous amount of product available?

“Relax, Lesion. Look.” Zofia steps over to where he’s still raking the room with his eyes and presents him her small tablet, the distance of the scanner adjusted to the size of the warehouse and then some – it’s generous, and if anyone was present, it’d pick up on their implant, yet the device remains quiet. She waves it around wildly to humour him, probably sensing his hesitation, and he can’t help but smile. They’ve been through a lot over the years and it’s always a relief to be called in for anything harmless. They’d take thirty boring calls over a single serious one any day. The only time the tablet emits a gentle pulse of sound is when she directs it at Lesion himself. “No one. Whoever tripped the alarm is long gone.”

“You’re right. If you want, you can go ahead, I want to snoop around a little more. Haven’t been in one of these often.”

“Knock yourself out then.” Zofia gives him a last wave and soon vanishes into nothing more than soft footfalls. Lesion remembers the days before the radical changes took place to conserve energy, streamline infrastructure, cut down on unnecessarily complex systems – the warehouse would’ve been lit up by a myriad of lights indicating a variety of states, cameras tracking their every move, even robots busily sorting boxes outside of the normal working hours. So much wasted material when simpler, more efficient ways do the trick just as well.

Still. He has to admit the resulting eerie atmosphere isn’t preferable over the colourful buzz of his childhood.

Neutraliser in his hand, he waits a bit longer, checking his own tablet and finding Zofia’s dot a suitable distance away, a soft thrumming barely caught by the program specialised in locating nearby implants while also capable of detecting running electronics. In no hurry, he returns the device to his pocket and puts his index finger on the trigger.

“If you come down of your own volition, I won’t shoot”, he states calmly.

Nothing. Silence roars in the massive hall.

He supposes it does sound like a bluff, so he adds: “I saw you. Third row up, wearing something white. I promise I will not shoot.”

“Then fucking put it away, twat”, a drawl sounds from above him. He whips up his hand, aiming at the exact spot the voice came from, and fires, nearly burning a hole into a box in the process but missing the intended target which, with a heartfelt curse, ducks behind the merchandise. It seems to be a man, possibly younger than Lesion himself and with a notable accent reminding him of the slums bordering the suburbs – as an enforcer, he’s come to associate this type of language with trouble.

Glad the times are over when every discharge of his gun was logged and had to be justified, Lesion squeezes the trigger a few more times in the direction of suspicious rustling before whipping his head around at a louder noise: the bastard’s jumped to the next row. As high up as he is, the boxes are spaced out more than on the ground and he’s got an easier time switching aisles whereas Lesion fights his way past assortments of cables, processors and batteries, following the trespasser towards the back wall of the storage space, away from the open corridors. His aim is excellent yet no match for the stranger’s agility, leaving him to wonder how often he’s already had to dodge shots like this.

The chase is disorganised and sloppy on both sides, they get caught on objects, mutter swears under their breath and knock over a variety of objects, but eventually Lesion’s quick reactions prevail: one concentrated blast of energy out of his neutraliser connects with the shadowy figure higher up and causes a faint smell of burnt tires and meat. As a result, the fugitive misses his next leap, fingers probably slipping on the metal shelf, and comes crashing down to Lesion’s level. A fall from that height isn’t fatal yet might mean a few broken bones without preparation. Habit kicks in more than anything, forcing Lesion to catch the stranger and tumble to the floor with the slim figure in his arms.

Still paralysed from the gun, the man merely moans in pain as Lesion extracts his limbs from under him, ignoring the throbbing places which will soon be adorned by colourful bruises, and aims the barrel at the guy’s head. He’s dressed shoddily, more like an adolescent punk than a man of his age. At least the large hole in his leather pants right where Lesion shot his calf might convince him to get rid of the hideous piece of clothing. “Don’t move”, he grits out and, just to make sure, takes out his scanner once more. Nothing. No signal. The dark-haired criminal before him might as well not exist.

“You said you wouldn’t shoot, you prick”, comes the accusation in between shallow pants. It’s not just exertion which makes his heart race and breath quicken – panic is visible in wide eyes.

“It was non-lethal, relax.” For good measure, Lesion fiddles with the settings of his weapon, sets it to stun and fires it at the man’s thigh, causing him to spasm and seize with a throaty grunt. While his muscles slowly recover from the burst of electricity, Lesion crouches down and efficiently searches him, unzips the old-fashioned varsity jacket, digs through all the pockets he can find and unearths a few interesting items: a simple gas mask, a small container with yellow tape wrapped around it which seems to secure a few wires, a few pencils and what looks like a journal made of actual paper as well as an electronic device the likes of which Lesion hasn’t seen before. Not unusual: criminals of this calibre oftentimes manufacture their own equipment. He notices a grin on the ghost’s face and asks: “What?”

“Nothing. Been a while since I was last strip searched, is all. Wanna reach _inside_ , too? I’ll try not to make it weird, but you’ll have to excuse any moans.”

Vulgar. Lesion scoffs though he can’t deny a certain pang of nostalgia at the crude language. It reminds him of his childhood. “Shut up. You could be dead.”

“Aye. I _should_ be.”

Their gazes meet again and the implied question makes Lesion uncomfortable. All enforcers are obliged to neutralise any ghosts, anyone who’s dropped off the grid, managed to remove or modify their implants. By all means, he shouldn’t even be talking to him. But he has to sate his curiosity – ever since he heard of these people called ghosts, he was determined to discover their motivation at the risk of his own job. He’s suddenly glad Zofia was his partner for the evening as she’s the one who trusts him the most. Others might’ve remained by his side and long finished the guy off or at the very least checked up on him.

“Just fucking end me, mate. I’m not talking.”

So far, Lesion has only had contact with one other ghost who unfortunately managed to get the drop on him. He was weirdly distinguished and merciful, only wanted to know Lesion’s name after noticing the non-lethal setting on his gun and then let him go. Not at all someone Lesion would’ve expected to turn to crime. This punk fits his expectations better. “What is all this for?” He picks up the oblong metal and weighs it in his hand; the container is lighter than he expected.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, old man? You know, for someone your age you’re surprisingly fit. Didn’t think you’d keep up with me – or even spot me, really.”

He’s too familiar with the taunting tone of someone who knows they have no way out and so he doesn’t let the cockiness get to him. Putting the small item into his pocket for later inspection, he examines the book next. “I appreciate all the equipment we’re given, but I’ve not forgotten to rely on my senses”, Lesion mutters distractedly while rifling through the pages.

Over half of the journal is empty, but the other half seems promising – an enumeration of people, complete with names, simple drawings, descriptions, and personal notes. This could be extremely valuable information, even if a second glance doesn’t reveal anything groundbreaking. _Grocery store owner_ , it reads on one, _loves cats and smiles like she means it_. Odd. It seems most of what’s been jotted down in smudged pencil are characteristics, usually positive. _Twins, wear stripes often, hate the same subjects in school, sweet tooth_. Badly drawn faces with pigtails smile up at Lesion. These are children. How likely is it that they’re affiliated with any ghosts?

“Smart. Does that mean you can write, too?”

“I can, yes.” His reply earns him an interested eyebrow. The ghost has sat up now, massaging his indubitably sore legs yet seeming weirdly at ease with the entire situation. Too trusting. He might have a trump up his sleeve, even if Lesion isn’t quite sure what – the electronic devices must be turned off or else his scanner would’ve detected them, and even if he attacked with a hidden knife, Lesion is confident he’d be able to fend him off. Growing up in a rough neighbourhood does have its perks. “Who are these people?”

“Memories.” It’s all the man offers for now. “Why aren’t you killing me?”

Why isn’t he? He snaps the book shut, pondering the question and finally replying with an inquiry himself: “Why did you choose to forfeit your life?”

A grin and a scoff – most people’s reaction when anyone poses an inflammatory question and they’d rather not acknowledge it at all. “You can keep the journal if you like. Write down all the people you know, all the people you get to know. The cases you encounter. Document everything. You might be surprised.”

“I will keep all your possessions anyway”, Lesion informs him and slips the book into one of his many pockets. He will let the stranger go after a few more questions which burn in his mind because he knows detaining him is a death sentence. Their system is an efficient and effective one, but it does not take kindly to those who escape it.

“Then you leave me no choice. Sorry.” The ominous words are accompanied by the ghost reaching into his boots and though Lesion instantly lifts his weapon, he’s too late – a hissing sound and unexpected pain in his thigh distract him and the stranger manages to dodge his shot. Suddenly he’s surrounded by opaque yellow, the air itself attacking him, pinpricks in his eyes, his nostrils, his lungs, and belatedly he realises _oh. That’s what the gas mask is for_.

His body in shrill alarm, he barely catches sight of the criminal withdrawing, having snatched most of his belongings back and escaping the opposite direction of Zofia, meaning there’s no chance of capturing him – his priority now is survival. In between coughs, he stumbles as far out of the toxic cloud as he can, vision blurry and every breath burning.

He briefly wonders whether he has to pay for a spared life with his own but when hands grab him to drag him away and a face framed by auburn hair appears before his, visibly worried, he relaxes and sinks into merciful unconsciousness.

“You were lucky.” Slowly, fingers lift, find their way to a cup and raise it. The other hand moves the bulky respirator aside to reveal surprisingly youthful features, no older than Lesion’s own despite the fragility of the attached body. The Chief is perched in her chair as usual, nearly disappearing into the thick cushions as she sips her morning tea, surrounded by screens, the machine keeping her alive, and digital frames displaying a slide show of cherished family members, friends and past pets. Lesion doesn’t know the full story yet the rumours are manifold – a messy divorce, several falling-outs with relatives. The Chief’s past illustrates how lonely it must be at the top.

It puts Lesion’s recent promotion into a different light.

“I was”, he confirms, voice hoarse. The hospital found no lingering residue of any harmful substances in his blood and so he got released this morning, expected to turn up at work as usual. Apart from a lingering ache in every breath, the chemical burn on his thigh still throbs now and then. He still doesn’t understand what happened – the secondary setting on his scanner informs him of any live electronics in the area, yet for the device that turned out to be a gas grenade, it remained silent. Impossible.

“I regret to say that you wouldn’t have been the first one, had it gone differently.” Despite the gravity of her words, the Chief’s face remains composed. Lesion has never witnessed her lose her cool, regardless of the situation. “We have lost valued members of our force to this devilish concoction.”

“Really? I’ve never heard of a similar case like this.”

“We keep it quiet. You enforcers have your orders to neutralise any of these criminals you come across, and they’re for good reason. The initial strike came from their side and cost too many lives. Like I said. You’re lucky.”

Lesion nods wordlessly. There’s a brief lull in conversation as the Chief inhales deeply and then sets the mask aside again. Speaking with her always sparks something akin to reverence in Lesion – she’s devoted to her job and the people she protects, no matter the hardships she went through. He couldn’t ever hope for it, but he’d like to sit in that same puffy chair one day. Maybe without the respirator and pane of glass separating her from visitors though. He intends to keep the numerous security measures protecting the office, however. You never know.

“In your words, what happened?”

The implication is clear: she’s read Lesion’s report and confirmed it with Zofia. “We responded to an automated alarm in one of the warehouses by pier 16. We found no trespassers at the location and my partner Bosak decided to head outside already while I proceeded to look around some more, just in case.”

“No reason?”

“The long aisles are visually pleasing”, he replies and watches the Chief’s eyes crinkle at the corners after a second. Her illness has slowed down her perception, but certainly not her mind. “Before I’d spotted the ghost, a gas grenade was thrown in my direction and detonated close to my leg, largely incapacitating me. I did fire a few shots blindly but must’ve missed as the perpetrator escaped.”

“That person tried to kill you.”

He nods, though he has his doubts.

“Remember this. They do not play by the rules. They disregard everything we as a people have worked so hard to build – what we erect, they attempt to tear down. Keep an eye out, you seem to have good instincts.”

“Yes, Chief”, he hears himself say and keenly feels the edge of the journal digging into his hip. So far, he intends to research each person listed as best as possible – there’s no need for him to follow the man’s suggestion of jotting down anything himself. None at all.

Regardless, he’s carrying around a few pencils as well.

~*~

“Suicide.” In one word, Zofia summarises a tragedy impossible to simplify, and yet the single term encapsulates the loss of an entire life somehow.

These are Lesion’s least favourite calls – they’re stuck with the feeling of helplessness; inaction is a heavy weight on their shoulders. An entire being has been eradicated and they’re unable to punish the killer. Powerless, they linger outside the one-room apartment like late harbingers of death and watch their techs sweep the place like flies, ready to feast on flesh. Every death has to be investigated, recorded, every cause of death entered into a statistic so the people in power can do their part in reducing common factors. The battle against mental illness is still raging on as are the campaigns in favour of large families. Ultimately, it’s a race against time and a loss would mean the eventual death of mankind.

He’s shaking. There’s no doubt Zofia can tell yet she leaves it uncommented out of courtesy. Maybe she thinks a relative of his went the same way, or the inadequate living conditions remind him of his childhood, it’s all the same to him. Because she’ll probably never hear about the real reason he’s as pallid as he is.

“A 20-something year old woman”, his partner informs him and out of habit, he soaks it up like a sponge. “Was studying to become a welder, apparently highly gifted. Dabbled in electronics in her free time and showed no signs of depression or anything similar. She was well-liked.”

“Did she jump out of the window?”, Lesion wants to know, voice shaking. A curious glance from Zofia is all he needed. He’s getting nauseous.

“Not quite. She leapt off her university’s roof. Climbed through a window to get up and jumped.”

Zofia has a daughter. Much younger, but it’s getting to her nonetheless. Lesion would like to offer comfort yet he has none to give. Not when he feels like he’s trapped in a nightmare. “You don’t understand this one, do you?”

She throws him another surprised look. “I was just about to say that. It doesn’t make sense to me. These days, we have a much better grasp of what goes on in people’s heads, so we should be able to tell the reason very quickly. But we have nothing. It’s as if she decided from one day to the next that she needed to die.”

It’s like a punch in the guts. He’s spared the necessity of a reply by the techs finishing their jobs, having made backups of all her personal files and pushing past Lesion and Zofia with a polite nod. An in-depth evaluation will be made tomorrow as there’s no hurry – the incident is going nowhere and their shift is technically already over.

Though Lesion knows the analysis will never happen.

He steps inside the small room and takes stock of what little furniture there is, trying to memorise it all. To blot out the sharp lights from the busy city outside, black curtains are permanently affixed to the window – not a rarity in the large buildings which don’t get any sun anyway. Tiny holes are punched into the fabric, forming a pattern Lesion easily recognises as their skyline. It seems she was meticulous and put a lot of effort into shaping her surroundings the way she wanted. Memorabilia are scattered around, as are various tools and electronic parts the kind of which were stored in the warehouse Lesion visited a mere month ago. He’s fairly sure he could guess the general purpose of her tinkering.

“Not much we can do here, I’m afraid. The techs will have gathered everything.”

“Yeah”, Lesion agrees distractedly and rubs his throbbing temples. A migraine would be the last thing he needs now and yet it looms over him the same way the two of them prey on any information they can tear from the small apartment. When he wakes up the table, its surface displays blueprints too detailed for a mere hobbyist, as far as he can tell, and so he quickly snaps a picture for later perusal. He needs to remember to sketch it down once he’s home.

“I’m worried”, Zofia announces into the heavy air of the tainted space. _You’re not the only one_ , Lesion thinks. “You’ve been behaving oddly. Is everything alright?”

“Just dandy”, he lies and ignores the impossible weight of a small journal in his pocket.

His door unlocks by itself with a soft click, sensing his approach, but he doesn’t enter his home just yet. Far below him, silent vehicles without human drivers glide along the razor straight roads and the intelligent screens display ads based on the audience by detecting implants and evaluating the stored data. Neural networks have improved life considerably and it wasn’t until Lesion joined the force that he realised just how much the entire city relies on algorithms and artificial synapses and how smoothly everything runs as a result – programming a coffee machine to have a hot cup ready when coming home from work is old technology, though these days it doesn’t even require a set time or even the press of a button seeing as setting the distance to the owner’s implant is enough. Some people tell their PCs or TVs to turn on once they enter their homes, some have their flat run them a bath or pre-heat the stove or oven for cooking. Though preparing food at home has become a rarity.

Lesion enjoys the small luxuries, but he’s learnt not to rely on them too much. He’s yet to find a machine which can brew his coffee the way he likes it. Oftentimes, he wonders how people lived before all these conveniences, what they did in their spare time, how they managed to go through the motions of so much repetition every day for something that could so easily have been executed by a simple machine. He’s not lazy by any means, but he’s glad he was born at a time where tedium is a lot less present – and so when he finally earned enough to digitalise every part of his life, he wasn’t sad to see the heaps of paper go, the omnipresent pens out of ink or pencil shavings everywhere; unsearchable, disorganised, too-large sheets which earned him a lot of unwanted attention during his training. It cemented his position as a second class citizen and he relished the day he finally fit in with everyone else.

He shouldn’t be surprised the same material he’s come to despise eventually returned to haunt him.

When he enters his flat, his thoughts are running wild. He needs to write himself a reminder and stick it to the fridge, but first he has to make the journal entry – he should’ve gone through the dead woman’s files before leaving but Zofia’s attentive eyes were on him and he just didn’t feel ready to deal with her inquiries. He passes Smoke who’s perched on the sofa and eating leftovers to brew some tea in the kitchenette, ignoring the quiet blathering from the large screen almost taking up the entire wall. He didn’t want a unit this huge but the Mayor so heavily subsidises them that the bigger one came out cheaper. He needs to go shopping later, since Smoke finished -

And then it finally registers.

There’s a stranger in his home.

He freezes mid-step and his brain desperately tries to figure out how he could _overlook_ an entire person, why the man feels so familiar to him, why it’s almost soothing to watch him shovel Lesion’s dumplings into his mouth. It makes no sense. A sharp pain cracks through his head like a lightning bolt and, unable to process what’s going on, he acts on instinct. They’re not allowed to have their neutralisers off duty but he does have handcuffs, so he jumps the dark-haired stranger (but is he _really_?) who’s been examining him calmly, punches him square in the jaw for good measure and slaps the metal on his wrists before he can even resist. It takes him a moment of struggling against the writhing body between his legs before he notices that Smoke is _laughing_ , and his head hurts, it hurts so much.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”, Lesion barks at the man he’s only seen once before in his life, in a dark warehouse amid the smell of burning flesh, but why does he look so familiar on the couch, why does his wide grin spark recognition? “How did you get in?”

“Should’ve guessed you were into light bondage”, comes the cocky reply. “Kinky.”

“That your catchphrase?” The words are out of Lesion’s mouth before he can stop himself. He can’t consciously remember the ghost ever uttering it, and _yet_.

Smoke perks up at this. “You remember”, he states.

And he couldn’t be further from the truth. It all floods Lesion’s mind at once, all the bits and pieces which don’t add up, all the oddities which turned into jigsaw pieces with an implication so horrifying he never allowed himself to glance at the full picture he was building.

He humoured the ghost who gifted him the poisoned apple, utilised the journal the way he was told and jotted down names, badly-rendered faces, characteristics, whichever came to mind when he thought of the person. And after a week, he made the mistake of leafing through the pages. _Suicide_ , it said and detailed a case Zofia and he checked out, a tragic event: a middle-aged man throwing himself out of his office window despite there being no indications as to why. He left behind a family of three, a sobbing wife, ashen-faced children.

Only it never happened.

Lesion has no recollection of the entire event, can’t even recall writing any of it down but it _is_ his handwriting. Records show him patrolling an unsavoury yet ultimately harmless neighbourhood, a boring shift which he can recall in detail. It eats into his consciousness and prods and pokes until he goes a step further. He contacts the family.

No, says the wife, her husband died long ago. What was the name again? No, that’s not even her husband’s name. She doesn’t know the person Lesion is asking about.

The only place where he ever existed seems to be on the simple page Lesion doesn’t for the life of him remember filling.

It’s one of his colleagues next. No one has ever heard of her. And neither has Lesion.

“Your reality is crumbling.”

Furious, Lesion yanks the chains over Smoke’s head, causing a grimace. “What is going on? What the _fuck_ is going on?!”

“Tell me what you think it is. Tell me what you know.”

“You first.”

“You don’t trust me.”

Lesion’s head is spinning. It’s harder and harder to think straight, especially with these curious eyes peering up at him in a manner so _painfully_ familiar. He knows this person, but it feels more like meeting a celebrity, being face to face with someone usually on a screen – Smoke is achingly real, a pool of warmth between Lesion’s thighs, a tangible provocation in everything he does. “You broke into my flat”, Lesion states. “And the last time we saw each other, you tried to kill me. So no, I don’t trust you.”

There’s still a certain smugness in handsome features. “What’s my name?”

“Smoke. You told me it was Smoke.”

“When did I tell you?” When _did_ he tell him? Lesion doesn’t know, no matter how hard he thinks. The space between his ears pulses vicious pain in sharp bursts. Another grin, another one of these stupid fucking superior grins Lesion hates so much because it means Smoke is taking delight in knowing something Lesion doesn’t. “This is our fourth meeting, Lesion.”

Impossible. His head weighs a ton. “No”, he objects weakly.

“Tell me what you know. I can help you deal with it.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you and I trust you.” Smoke says it so matter-of-factly that there’s no doubt he means it. The playfulness in his features has vanished and been replaced by a sombre look – he doesn’t even seem to mind Lesion is still hurting him by tugging on the handcuffs. “I know slum riffraff when I see it.”

“I’m not -”

“No matter how much you think you can hide it, it’s so bloody obvious you might as well have it tattooed. You cook for yourself, you can write, you wear second-hand clothes under your stupid pretentious uniform -”

In an almost loving gesture, Lesion slowly wraps a hand around Smoke’s throat, feels his heartbeat strain against his fingers. He doesn’t press down, not yet, but it’s a warning which is met with compliance – Smoke cranes his neck to allow Lesion better access.

“Typical enforcer”, he mutters, amused, “become violent whenever their world views are being challenged. You’re still trash, Lesion, no matter how far you climb the ladder. But it’s okay. I am trash too.”

He’s tempted, oh so tempted to make the unbearable pain go away. Smoke represents instability, Lesion’s destitute past, doubts, uncertainty, and he could make it all disappear right here, right now. He’s killed before, out of necessity and self-defence, but never like this, never someone who knows more about him than he does about his potential victim, never someone who’d stare him in the eyes as he does it. His thumb caresses Smoke’s jaw while he ponders the consequences of both paths and coal eyelashes flutter.

The view is enticing. It makes Lesion wonder what they did the previous times they met.

“There’s something wrong with me”, he says confidently and lets go of the link between the unforgiving metal, sits up, relaxes his body. Below him, between his legs, Smoke does the same. His cheeks are pink. “My memory keeps messing up. I find made-up things I don’t remember writing.”

Lesion doesn’t open the handcuffs and Smoke doesn’t ask him to. “Wrong. Try again.”

It’s what he figured anyway. “People vanish from existence. One day, they jump out of a window, the next, it’s as if they were never real.”

“We can tell you why.” The offer increases the pressure in Lesion’s head tenfold. So there’s a system behind it, there’s a _reason_. Not reassuring. “But there’s a hook.”

He’s not dumb. “I’d have to become a ghost.”

“You’d have to become a ghost.”

Become an outlaw without knowing the significance to his choice. Getting shot on sight, giving up all ties to society – and only now does he realise how interwoven the small chip he carries in his body is with his life. Every terminal customised to his liking. Every food and grocery order waiting for him on the counter when he reaches the store. Everything personalised to such a degree he’d feel lost if he gave it up.

All the hard work forfeit. He holds one of the most respected jobs in the city.

“I don’t want that”, he decides quietly. Curiosity only goes so far, and certainly not into life-threatening territory. There’s obviously something going on, something large, but it doesn’t feel like his battle to fight. He’s already doing his part in keeping the city safe.

“What _do_ you want?”

This – this is an entirely different offer and Lesion can’t ignore the spark any longer, allows it to kindle heat which centres wherever he and Smoke are touching. Thick black hair yearns for the touch of his fingers and a warm body stretches towards his, calling, and he felt this pull the first time they met already. Smoke’s accent is like solid ground, reliable, he ignores courtesies and wears his interest on his sleeve – he’s charmingly rude, in a way, full of himself and caring despite. He has a similar background to Lesion’s. This fact alone should repel him yet it achieves the contrary.

“I want to stop forgetting”, he replies earnestly nonetheless, ignoring all the other things he wants that moment because they will pass. The black holes in his head, the lost time replaced with nothing but forgeries, believable boringness meant to fool him, it threatens his entire self-image – if he could forget a trusted and valued colleague, what else has been wiped from his subconscious? A past lover? A confidante? He swore off hard alcohol when he experienced his first and last blackout at 23, only drinks in moderation since then as the missing evening yawned like an abyss. These lost days are decidedly worse, however. “I want to keep my memories.”

“I can help you with that. No requirements for it.”

“That screams _trap_ to me.”

“We want you on our side. No use in damaging the bloody merchandise.”

“And fucking it is alright?”

It comes out sharper than intended, though Smoke’s eyes light up at the accusation, both out of mirth and intrigue. “With how uptight you are, it’ll take me a century to get you out of those hideous shorts. You don’t really think we recruit by seduction, right? We would’ve snatched someone with a bigger bulge for sure.”

The migraine no longer towers over him, the storm has passed, and Lesion involuntarily lets out a chuckle, much to Smoke’s delight. “I still don’t trust you. But you can suck me if you want.”

Their eyes lock for a moment, and then a plethora of feelings Lesion has been carefully stacking up so they wouldn’t take up much room collapse in on themselves, on himself, and they’re as varied as they are volatile: mostly it’s rage, fury over having been confronted with these things, over having been burdened with this unwanted knowledge, a large portion of loneliness stemming from one too many evenings by himself in front of various screens, the unpleasant alienness of lost memories – but there’s fascination too, a touch gratitude, and undeniable attraction. If there’s only a fraction of Lesion’s own turmoil going on inside Smoke, they’ll make for an unstable compound.

He shuffles higher, yanks Smoke’s head up to press his face into Lesion’s crotch while Smoke’s elbows are digging into his thighs and they’re both talking, both breathless and muffled for different reasons; disbelief over reality not being as he once thought clogs Lesion’s throat like cotton, and Smoke curses heartily into the fabric covering Lesion’s dick. They’re scrambling to get somewhere, anywhere, both of them clear on the destination yet fuzzy on the exact path, and the handcuffs aren’t helping.

“How do I stop forgetting?”, Lesion wants to know in between impatient pants. His trousers aren’t even open and he can feel himself harden already, anticipation sweetening every accidental brush over his cock. And still, his thoughts linger on Smoke’s words, the promise behind them.

Eager fingers are imprecise in their hurry and struggle with his zip before being victorious and claiming their prize: half-hard flesh which they coax out of underwear and caress lovingly, cold metal making Lesion flinch when it makes contact. “Left back pocket”, Smoke breathes against smooth skin, engrossed in his task. “You saw it the first time. An electronic thingy, shaped like a rectangle.”

Curious, Lesion leans back but keeps his hips in place, shoves one hand under Smoke’s backside and begins rummaging around in said pocket, but gets interrupted by a slick tongue swirling over his shaft. With a gasp, he ceases his search in favour of relishing sweet sensation for a few seconds, squeezes ample flesh in his palm and notices Smoke’s hips instinctively lifting, probably seeking friction. It’s nothing he can provide, not when he’s enjoying human touch for the first time in years, not when Smoke’s enthusiasm has him drooling all over Lesion’s cock already. The tip of Smoke’s tongue rubs over exactly the right spot and Lesion can’t suppress a moan at the welcome teasing.

Reminding himself of what he was doing, his hand slides deeper into Smoke’s pocket but comes up empty, and when he frowns down at the ghost, a sly grin betrays Smoke’s next words as blatant lies: “My bad, I could’ve sworn it was there. Then it’s in my thigh pocket. Right side.”

“Cheeky bitch”, Lesion grumbles and pushes the head of his cock past Smoke’s stretched lips into marvellous heat. “What did we do the other two times?”

Smoke gives a hard suck which once again distracts Lesion in his endeavour before replying: “You beat me up both times. Last time, we snogged like champions and then you threw me out.” Sounds reasonable so far. “Also, you laughed at all my jokes.”

He lets out a disbelieving snort. “Shut up.”

“I’ll stop doing it when you stop laughing, sweetie.” Another wolfish grin and Smoke swallows his dick again, this time serious. Lesion focuses on retrieving the odd object first, sets it aside and then curls his fingers around Smoke’s head once more, holding onto luscious hair and allowing himself small movements.

Fucking Smoke’s mouth feels heavenly, it’s a revelation in and of itself and so Lesion tests out his limits, pushes boundaries until he’s perched over the other man, thrusting down into welcoming heat while petting his hair. Smoke’s mobility is restricted due to the position already and he keeps forgetting about his restraints, meaning he repeatedly drags the chain over hot skin, prompting a jump but Lesion would be lying if he claimed he didn’t like the extra dimension of stimulation.

It’s sloppy and not at all skilled, Smoke clearly inexperienced despite his big mouth, yet his eagerness more than makes up for it – he gags and slurps and all the filthy, wet noises make Lesion’s blood boil exactly right: indignation over Smoke’s misplaced boasting and vindication over teaching him a lesson by shoving a cock as deep down into his throat as it will go form a potent aphrodisiac and it’s not long until Lesion is breathless, helplessly staring down at the flushed face between his legs and willing himself not to climax too soon. Smoke is struggling but it’s all for show, he grips the base of Lesion’s dick tightly and tries to massage the come out of him while pressing against Lesion’s hips, making him bear down even more. He can see spit running down Smoke’s rosy cheeks and tears forming in the corners of his eyes, but when he shows mercy and lets up, the ghost merely pulls him back down and cuts off his own oxygen supply.

Both of them pant and gasp and moan and inhale sharply, both of them are lost in the moment, though Lesion has the overwhelming need travelling to every cell in his body to help him along. He wishes he’d never met Smoke because living ignorantly was living blissfully, and some of the pent up ire is released with every thrust downwards into a spasming throat, towards relief. His hand clenches in raven locks and he’s probably hurting Smoke as nails dig painfully into his thighs in response yet both of them seem fine with it, make no move to go easy.

It’s too much at once, shiny lips bending so prettily around Lesion’s shaft, the heated gaze never once leaving his face, the clinking of chain links, an overeager tongue exploiting all his weakspots. The build-up crashes down on him out of the blue, without warning – one second he’s focusing on the beautiful friction, the next he’s enveloped in marrow deep ecstasy, suffering a full body shudder and hearing a strangled groan escape him. He forgot how sweet it feels, how _satisfying_ to come undone due to someone else’s ministrations, and a fierce wave of gratitude washes over him as Smoke desperately tries to swallow, keep up the stimulation, milk him for what it’s worth. Lesion moans and twitches with every spurt, riding his orgasm until only passive bliss remains, and then withdraws to climb off Smoke, slumping down on the floor next to the sofa.

During the afterglow, he listens to the other man fighting to get all the sperm down, coughing and licking his lips, and in a small bout of hysteria wonders what the Chief would think if any of his colleagues found a ghost in Lesion’s flat currently suffocating on his come. It shouldn’t be funny. And yet he grins.

“How do I use this?”, he slurs, still stuck in elation, and turns the electronic device in his fingers.

Smoke sits up and wipes his mouth with the sleeves of his jacket which are conveniently already white. “Sleep with it next to you, that’s all. But be careful not to sleep anywhere else. And don’t take it with you, it’ll get you in trouble.” His voice is hoarse but there’s a peacefulness to him which seems uncharacteristic. Something seems to have settled and when he reaches out to Lesion, changes his mind halfway, embarrassed, it’s clear what this is about.

Yet another aspect in which Lesion will have to turn him down.

“Did you know her?”

Smoke eventually does dare touch him, like a cautious dog expecting to be reprimanded any moment. Fingertips at the base of Lesion’s neck are soothing so he allows their presence. “I did.”

They leave it at that. He doesn’t need Smoke to tell him she was full of life, and he supposes the ghost wouldn’t divulge what actually happened to her anyway. “I copied her blueprints. Are they of any value to you?”

A shadow of Smoke’s usual self-assured smirk returns, even though this one is full of fondness Lesion doesn’t like one bit. Neither of them are mentioning the visible bulge in Smoke’s trousers. “Look at you, helping the opposition. We have all her data, but thanks.”

“Will I get killed if anyone finds out I have this?”, Lesion muses, curious if the answer actually changes anything for him.

“Yes.”

Well. Now he knows. And as expected, nothing changes.

That night, Lesion experiences true terror.

Like Smoke told him right before Lesion tossed him out, with wet lips and rumpled clothing still, he places the object on his bedside table before choosing one of his favourite preconfigurations for the night, something calm to unwind, help him process all he learnt that day. Astonishingly, he feels considerably better knowing it’s not just delusion or his brain malfunctioning, even though the fact that people simply disappear is highly concerning.

Another reason why he didn’t accept Smoke’s offer: he hopes he can do better research from within.

His evening ritual is the same, begins with a cup of tea and ends with him putting his tablet aside so he can read more about the tragic heroine the next day. The ominous item he received as a gift taunts him in its simplicity: no lights are blinking, no sound is being emitted, nothing. It must run on a battery, if it even does anything. Maybe he was prescribed a homeopathic solution to his problem, maybe even a placebo. He only has Smoke’s word to go by and therefore it’s basically worthless.

Half expecting something to disrupt his sleep, he drifts off, looking forward to exploring yet another vibrant fantasy world. This addition has to be one of the most welcomed ones in the history of mankind: assisted dreaming. Seeing as the implant does have access to some cognitive functions in order to protect and serve as best as possible, the newest versions – starting several decades ago – tap into a massive library of tried and tested dreamscapes available to everyone in order to produce images, sounds, for some people even smells, before the mind’s eye. The varieties are endless, ranging from coherent storylines featuring real acquaintances of the dreamer’s, selectable via a handy app, to fragmented, relaxing experiences inspired by nature and inspiring a zen-like state.

Lesion has never been on vacation but he assumes assisted dreaming comes close, it’s a fantastic way to leave the stressful day behind and centre himself while recharging energy on top. Especially since he needs something to replace the endless slide show of lips stretched into a grin, casual voice betrayed by seriousness in dark eyes, trousers too tight and requiring a helping hand. It’s bad enough Lesion has to consciously push away the endless questions forcing themselves to the front of his thoughts, he doesn’t want the stupid, arrogant bastard to join them.

He vaguely remembers Smoke complimenting his cooking. It couldn’t have happened in a dream yet feels like it, with the ghost perched on the same couch as today, displaying a genuine smile.

Yes. He sorely needs the distraction.

One of his favourite dreams is ever-changing and evolving – someone programmed a neural network with the task of creating fantastical landscapes, impossible biomes, incredible environments and it delivered so much more. Now and then, Lesion spends an entire night exploring caverns made of liquid, shimmery ice that flows upwards, metal islands in the skies connected by breathing wires, cities forming self-contained orbs of pure light which grow with distance and shrink up close. It never fails to lift his spirits for the next day.

When he opens his eyes again after a few seconds, it’s early morning.

Disorientation hits him hard, confusion and panic take over as he sits up, looks around, shakes his head at the time his tablet claims it is. He hasn’t even _slept_ , it’s as if someone smashed his head on the pavement and he spent eight hours unconscious instead of his usual eleven hour dreams. Worryingly awake, he checks whether his body is in working order and finds it uncomfortably energised, his mind running high and all his senses acutely alert.

He has no idea what the fuck happened. Where did his last eight hours go? Where the hell did they _go_?

On his tablet, he’s apparently still enjoying a magical stroll through different wonderlands and not scheduled to wake up for another three hours. Impossible. Did Smoke drug him somehow? Put sleeping pills in his tea? But even then Lesion shouldn’t have woken up just like that.

Frantic, he gets up, watches his tablet change and wish him a good morning as soon as he’s left his bedroom, and splashes his face with cold water. Instead of miraculous worlds, he experienced pure nothingness, a canyon of _empty_. He must’ve slept, though it feels more like passing out, reminds him of the few hours he lost after inhaling Smoke’s toxic gas. Even a violent shudder fails to eradicate the unpleasant grip the night still has on his brain.

It was like dying. It felt like death.

Then it hits him full force. The next second, he’s rifling through the tattered journal, turning pages hurriedly until he’s arrived at the most recent entry and can’t breathe out of relief.

He remembers. He recalls the face he was shown by Zofia, can spell the name and hasn’t forgotten the skyline punched into black fabric. He knows Smoke visited him and almost wishes he couldn’t trace the man’s face this painfully well from memory alone.

Ultimately, Smoke’s motivation remains a mystery to him. It’s obvious Lesion as an enforcer would be a helpful addition to the ghosts’ ranks, but what their aim is – Lesion doesn’t know. He doesn’t want to know.

For now, he’s satisfied with keeping silenced voices in his heart, with validating their existence via a pencil and paper, with documenting their life without focusing on their demise. It’s all he can do.

And even as he tells himself all this, he knows he’s doing nothing more than piling lie onto lie onto lie.

~*~

The Chief’s office seems to smell even more antiseptic than usual. Lesion has noticed a sharp increase in general awareness over the past week: his thoughts are focused, reactions come much quicker, and the world seems to have slowed down slightly. He’s running on caffeine all day without having ingested any, and he has to admit the change is not unwelcome. Even if it results in too much time on his hands. Sleeping for eight hours or even less has become the norm, and he spends the extra time in the mornings on walks through the city when most people are still enjoying their assisted dreams. A luxury he’s given up for a reason which seems less and less important to him every day.

Attentive eyes are closed, probably allowing their owner a brief respite from the crushing weight of duty. He waits politely, taking note of all the complicated screens detailing just how the Chief is being kept alive right now and which parts of her body aren’t functioning the way they should, watching as the glass between them fogs up at the edges. Lesion’s heart is beating a lot faster than the Chief’s, that much is for certain.

Eventually, the white respiratory mask is pushed aside and a weary gaze settles on him. “Lesion.”

“Chief. Thank you for agreeing to see me.”

A head tilts curiously. “Something heavy is on your heart. Share it with me.”

It takes all of his willpower not to back down now. He could walk away and it’d be the easiest thing in the world – all he needs to do is not acknowledge anything from the past two months. Sluggishly, he pulls out a few loose pages, sheets he sacrificed to concisely list everything he knew about the people to whom they’re dedicated. One by one, he presses them against the see-through barrier. “Do you know this person? Have you heard of him? What about him?”

For all of them, the Chief slowly shakes her head, quiet, patient. “What’s their significance?”

“You don’t remember her?” From where he sits, he can make out the large letters at the top of the last paper, mirrored and accusing. _Zofia Bosak_ , it says. _Doting mother, loyal, hard-working, empathetic, stubborn, reliable_. It’s the only one with a printed photo. He moves the profile until it breaks their eye contact so the Chief doesn’t see moisture glistening. She was an angel. Bought him lunch on long shifts. Kept telling him amusing anecdotes of her daughter. When Lesion visited her family earlier, none of them recognised him.

He can’t go on like this.

“I’m afraid I don’t. Ying has always been your partner, not this woman.”

Clear enunciation makes him doubt himself. His sleep is obviously messed up, so maybe he’s in a fever dream. But not even assisted dreaming could simulate pain as eviscerating as this. “Strange things are happening, Chief”, he says and concern begins to creep into the Chief’s expression.

~*~

Lesion jumps upright in his chair. Where is he? How did he get here? Why is every last one of his senses telling him he’s in mortal danger? An all-dominating sense of doom overshadows rational thinking and drives him to rise, chair clattering, forces him into the corner of a room he doesn’t recognise at first. It’s his workplace, but the gathering of familiar desks do nothing to calm him, quite the opposite – he’s being hunted, someone wants his life, he’s sure of it. Cold sweat has made his clothes clammy and more is following, his heart is pounding in his chest, wanting out, and his stomach feels like it’s dropped to the ground.

Panic guides him, has him slide along the wall, observing the empty room like a hawk, scanning it for movement so he can strike pre-emptively. Bit by bit, it comes back to him: he talked to the Chief about the disappearances, about erased memories, earned alarmed understanding and promises which filled his mind with hope. As soon as she realised he was serious, her whole demeanour changed, became alert and businesslike, her questions curt and quick. She took him by his word and immediately assigned people to look into it, informed Lesion he’d be a part of the investigation once he’d processed his grief over Zofia’s loss, and tasked him with more menial jobs for the rest of the day, even overtime, to let the predictability of everyday life soothe his nerves.

He must’ve fallen asleep at his desk, his last co-worker having left a while ago as Lesion relished the simplicity of typing up reports. Before, he felt good about his decision to involve his superior whom he trusts fully, felt confident she’d know what to do. But realisation hits hard.

If this is a large-scale conspiracy, she’s powerless. Not even she retained any memories of Zofia, meaning she’s just as affected as everyone else. And just like that, crushing despair settles in Lesion’s bones. He’s in over his head. This is too big for him.

Too big for the Chief herself.

Not only that: he made himself a target – possibly made every friend and acquaintance a target for whoever is responsible for this entire mess. And another thought increases his sudden guilt. Maybe he’s responsible for Zofia’s death.

Something wet hits his hand and he dumbly stares at the drop of clear liquid until he realises it’s a tear. He might’ve sealed Zofia’s fate, certainly did his own, possibly the Chief’s. Both of the women have family, loved ones, are widely connected in the community and loved. This is how he repays their kindness?

He didn’t sleep well, that much is clear, and figments continue to linger in the back of his brain, taunting, snarling. They emphasise his failures, drag past errors to the surface and showcase all his faults. He dreamt of Zofia, of not being able to save her from a bottomless chasm, dreamt of isolation and loss and then one particular thought ambushes him, springs up out of nowhere but takes hold immediately. Its roots bury themselves deep and it blossoms black as tar, foul-smelling.

_What’s the point?_

It’s an accusation as well as a monument of how insignificant and impotent he is. There is nothing he can do. Whatever he decides to do, he’ll fail, no doubt.

Feet carry him by themselves. At first, they shuffle, unsure of their destination, unconvinced, uncertain, but the further they wander, the quicker their step becomes. Artificial light accompanies him, pretending it’s not the middle of the night and casting long shadows which lead the way. The mirror in the elevator hurts, the image staring back at him hollow, disfigured and nauseating. He’s a blight to this world.

It’ll be better off without him.

Stairs guard that which his heart desires and he climbs them, disregarding their protest. Warm night air hits his face, tall buildings frame the enforcer headquarters. He pays no heed to the occasional lit window, to the silent monoliths bearing witness to his eradication.

Behind him, someone calls his name but it doesn’t matter. His mind is made up. The voice grows insistent, even more so when his toes kiss the edge of the roof and vertigo takes hold of him. He’s not sure how high up he is, all he knows is: high enough.

“I remember Zofia”, the smooth voice announces and this, finally, breaks through to him. A fellow soul. A kindred spirit.

He turns around, not moving away from his position, and comes to face a stranger who keeps a safe distance, though he watches him closely. “It doesn’t change anything”, Lesion replies and wonders whether he’s always sounded this lifeless, devoid of hope.

“We will remember her. And we can avenge her. Avenge everyone.” He’s tall and slim, looking like no one Lesion has ever met.

If he’s appealing to Lesion’s curiosity, he’s bound to fail. “I don’t care. You can’t -”

Someone collides with him, arms wrapping around his midsection and yanking him back onto the roof; they both lose their balance and fall, turning into a flurry of limbs as Lesion tries to fend off his attacker and not let himself be restrained. It came out of the blue which is impossible, Lesion’s hearing has been excellent recently and yet he didn’t notice someone running at him? They struggle, roll back towards death, and then the other stranger joins them, drags them towards the middle of the roof while panting orders, words, phrases not registering in Lesion’s mind.

Eventually, he notices he’s being hugged.

It’s a little unconventional, all limbs holding him in an iron grip, but there’s a face buried in the crook of his neck and no more fight in the warm body pressed against his. Against all instincts, he relaxes and feels the other person do the same, even if the endless stream of curses being whispered in his hair doesn’t subside.

“Fucking shite, bloody hell, I thought we lost you, holy fuck, don’t you ever fucking dare do that again you twat, I swear -”

Smoke. It’s Smoke. He hasn’t forgotten, but reason has largely eluded Lesion and it’s nigh impossible to scrape it back together. His head is swimming and he feels like he’s underwater, malfunctioning, something lodged in his brain which prevents his reality from coming back together.

“We have to go”, the other man announces and he must be a ghost too, or else how could they have gotten here? “Should we knock him out?”

Lesion doesn’t know what’s going on. Desperation is still reigning fiercely and tugging at his limbs to shake Smoke off and finish what he came here for. But there’s another part, just as dominant, which screams at him not to do it – the conflict rages, causing turmoil and confusion. Seeking assistance or mercy, he returns the embrace, holds on to the sole thing in his life which is solid right now. “Please help”, he asks and sounds pitiful, voice breaking and small. “Help me.”

There’s so much pain in Smoke’s expression and Lesion doesn’t know why. “Do you trust me?”

He doesn’t. He shouldn’t. This is the person responsible for all of it. Hesitantly, Lesion nods.

“Good. I’ll help you, I promise. But you have to do as I say.”

“Come on, Smoke. It’ll look suspicious for him to just disappear like that.”

Smoke isn’t paying attention to the tall man who’s trying to rush him, he only has eyes for Lesion, wide eyes filled with compassion and fear and hurt.

And so Lesion nods again.

Over time, Lesion surfaces. He finds himself in a large hall with no windows, unsure of how he got here but since most of the people buzzing about aren’t paying attention to him, his skin stops prickling after a while. Smoke refuses to leave his side and keeps up the physical contact once Lesion non-verbally lets him know he prefers it that way, and feeling a warm palm on his arm does its part in calming his frayed nerves. The man who remembers Zofia introduces himself as Jackal and claims he’ll explain everything to Lesion once he’s back to being himself again. Someone else provides Lesion with coffee for which he’s fiercely grateful – and a closer look reveals his benefactor to be the very first ghost he came across and let go. He introduces himself as Doc and immediately does his name justice as he checks up on Lesion so professionally he really does feel like he’s in the hands of a capable doctor.

All the while, Smoke holds his hand, even as he jokes with people passing by, exchanging quips and bits of information, obviously at ease.

After having eaten a bowl of stew that looks like dog vomit and tastes delicious, Lesion feels in control of his own body again, even if his mind steadfastly resists cooperation. He only exists in the moment, letting experiences and impressions wash over him and not thinking too hard about really anything. Still, fatigue is beginning to take over as his earlier nap wasn’t sufficient and when he yawns for the third time in a row, Smoke laughs quietly and tells him to go to bed.

The ghost leads him to a small room which looks like it’s occupied by several people in shifts: stuffed with numerous objects indicating various hobbies, there’s no more than a small path through the mess from the door to a mattress on the floor. Everything is horribly rustic, old-fashioned and cheap, reminding Lesion of growing up, reminding him of repetitive meals, frayed wires, wobbly furniture. And if he’s honest, he feels right at home.

“I’ll leave you to it. Sleep well and come find Jackal once you’re up. Good night.” Smoke’s fingers slip from his and he has to fight down the impulse to snatch them back, not let them go a second time. They’re standing in the middle of the room, regarding each other warily as Smoke waits for a response and Lesion waits for…

Well.

What _is_ he waiting for?

Smoke crashes against the door with a dull thud and manages to get out half a swear before Lesion seals his lips with his own. In a slightly differing echo to their struggle on the rooftop, they push and pull at each other once more, albeit with a new goal in mind. Lesion presses the lengths of their bodies together to limit Smoke’s resistance until it melts into eager compliance: hands seek out skin, tongues dance, and legs push between each other.

“You saved my life”, he gasps against a stubble-covered cheek and revels in shared body heat, thoroughly enjoys the undeniable mutual attraction between them. There’s no question of how much Smoke wants this, wants _him_ , and it helps Lesion feel human.

“You spared mine”, comes the slurred answer between wet kisses which leave both of them breathless.

“What are you saying? That we’re even? That we don’t have to -”

Smoke groans into his mouth and it’s only half pleasure, the other half apparently annoyance. “Stop being so fucking suspicious”, he growls and runs cool fingers over Lesion’s back, leaving sizzling trails, “I want to make sure this isn’t an obligation.”

Lesion silences him by trying to devour him whole, explores Smoke’s mouth mercilessly and lets hands roam over the compact body. Finally, he allows some of the truth seep through, rips the veil aside, lets himself _feel_. Because he can’t deny there’s always been something, from the moment he observed Smoke’s cat-like reflexes – and despite forgetting some of their time together, an emotion lingered just out of grasp. An emotion which now floods Lesion’s system and makes it hard for him to breathe. He couldn’t say what brought it on, whether it’s Smoke’s carefree attitude, the witty quips, his fascination with Lesion, the thrill of the forbidden, or maybe a very odd sort of trust. He placed unproportional trust in him for how little he acted on Smoke’s words.

They kiss like the desperate, silently cursing every bit of clothing which gets in the way and Lesion is glad he’s not wearing his armour or else this would take forever. A short struggle for power ensues but just like last time, Smoke relinquishes all control and lets Lesion manhandle him onto the bed, doesn’t bat an eye at insistent tugging and shoving and merely watches with a smile as Lesion peels his clothes off him. Lesion doesn’t need the soft lighting to identify the tissue under his digits but decides to ask about the scars later, once the throbbing desire controlling his actions has been satisfied.

“I was so scared”, Smoke whispers and pulls him down for another kiss. “I thought you were gone.”

The intrusive thoughts threatening Lesion’s life left behind a blurry imprint difficult to make out, and now it’s hard to fathom why he awarded them such power over him in the first place. “I’m alright now, you didn’t lose your precious asset”, he assures Smoke and isn’t quite sure himself if he’s joking.

Getting kneed in the side tells him Smoke is convinced he’s not, as does the scowl. “Don’t be a tosser.”

He’s gorgeous. The realisation hits Lesion unexpectedly – he never really allowed himself to look at him twice, for fear of the consequences, and he was right not to. Despite all, Smoke stuck around, checked up on him, eventually saved his life. Lesion had already declined the offer to join them and _still_ Smoke did what he did.

“I want you”, the raven-haired, illogical, kind creature below him says and it shoots directly to Lesion’s cock, makes it jump in anticipation, reminds him of what he’s been wanting to do to this man. Going back to ravishing him is seamless, his lips travel over expanses of fair skin no longer hidden by the stupid jacket or the even stupider leather trousers, worship every bump and ridge and pay extra attention to the nipples until Smoke is writhing in agonising pleasure under him, hips lifting off the mattress and seeking friction which is not granted. Lesion knows shockingly little about him but he knows enough, and acting on the noticeable pull between feels glorious.

A certain blurriness to Lesion’s perception remains and so he misses the part where Smoke’s hands snake between their torsos and undo the last bits of clothing separating them. All of a sudden, a warm palm wraps around Lesion’s hard shaft and a throaty moan escapes him, rolls off Smoke’s shoulder into which Lesion buries his teeth a second later. Just like before, the stimulation is dizzying, even more so now that they have reached some kind of understanding, are on the same side and the same page. Lesion melts under calloused fingers dragging over sensitive skin and tries to give back as good as he gets, pinches hard nipples and chews on Smoke’s earlobe, though he only starts harvesting open-mouthed gasps once he takes hold of the erection matching his own.

For a while, this is all they do, excitedly exploring each other while muffling their noises with deep kisses, and it’s been so long since Lesion last felt this overpowering warmth in his chest, since he last enjoyed desire as pure and distilled as this. He’s still rough, can’t help himself, somehow needs to mess Smoke up a little to convince them both it’s real, and the marks his nails leave behind when raking over marred skin satisfy a primal urge to conquer and claim. Smoke doesn’t complain about the biting, doesn’t mind the way Lesion yanks his limbs around, gladly lets him suck on his lip until it’s visibly swollen; he picks up what Lesion puts down and seems to thank him for it along the way.

It becomes serious the moment Lesion’s tongue swirls over Smoke’s scrotum, quite obviously with the intention to travel further south after deliberately ignoring the pretty cock which is generously leaking precum onto Smoke’s belly. A heartfelt curse drips from reddened lips and Smoke flips around unprompted, presenting Lesion’s target on a silver platter. “You don’t have to”, the ghost breathes as he hides his face in the discoloured pillow, “there’s lube in the -”

And then he doesn’t manage to produce another intelligible word for a few minutes because Lesion licks a long stripe over the ring of muscle and settles down more comfortably. This is his favourite part, if he’s honest, because not only is it smoking hot, it’s also extremely efficient and ultimately a symbiotic interaction: he gets to turn Smoke into a whimpering puddle on top of preparing him so he won’t experience any pain, which in itself is a win already, but also Lesion teases himself by feeling out just how wondrously _tight_ Smoke is. He’s pandering to them both, heightening their pleasure and allowing his mind to run wild with filthy imagery as he patiently works the other man open. His fingers reach deep and so does his tongue, both working in tandem to relax the entrance fluttering around him, and if he wasn’t looking forward to sinking into this addictive heat soon, he might’ve just brushed his dick over the sheets once or twice and unloaded on the spot. Smoke’s noises are a thing of beauty, just like the view of his back muscles dancing in a futile effort to keep his thighs from shaking.

By the time he moves on to actually using lube, Smoke is a pleading mess, and Lesion takes great joy in swallowing his whines while remorselessly brushing over his prostate with slick fingertips.

“You’re fucking ruthless”, Smoke chokes out and hooks his feet around Lesion’s ankles, indicating he’s very much okay with it. “You have some kinda power thing going on, don’t you?”

“I like to be in control”, Lesion admits and shoves all three fingers in to the hilt, observing how Smoke’s gaze turns glassy. “Don’t you have the opposite?”

“The bedroom’s the only place where I bend to authority”, comes the smart answer and Lesion almost laughs. The last bit of tension inside him uncoils and when the tip of his cock kisses Smoke’s hole, all that’s on his mind is making him feel as good as possible. He can worry about everything else later.

And good fucking heavens, Lesion has forgotten how ludicrously _good_ this feels.

Coherent thought vaguely returns once he’s bottomed out and urges him to take some of his weight off Smoke or else he’ll squish him, so he props himself up and peppers the black mane with small kisses to distract himself from the impulse of slamming into Smoke like there’s no tomorrow.

“I’m not made of sugar”, comes a growled complaint accompanied by a heated look. “Come on. Fuck me.”

He doesn’t have to tell Lesion twice. Going hard and deep, even if he hasn’t built up any speed yet, is immensely satisfying for both of them. Smoke is still tight and more than eager, meets Lesion’s hips with sharp snaps and clenches around him to milk moans with every thrust, and it’s a struggle not to give in to the violent _need_ gnawing at his composure. His teeth find that special spot at the back of Smoke’s neck again and exploit it pitilessly while burying himself all the way repeatedly with fluid motions.

Smoke is babbling now, spewing gibberish and words that sound like _yes_ and _fuck_ and _please_ , probably a _more_ thrown in here and there, and Lesion obliges happily, gives him what he wants. The slap of skin on skin fills the room together with the smell of sex, sweat coating their bodies and mouths haphazardly colliding from time to time. Lesion feels fantastic, hasn’t felt this alive in weeks and uses the sudden burst of energy to fuck more and more sounds out of his partner as their pleasure builds steadily, pools in the place they’re connected and is sent out in shockwaves every time Lesion drives into the body below.

They climb and climb with every movement and eventually Lesion needs more, so he pulls Smoke up on all fours, pushes into him as far as he can go and revels in the tight heat. He must be doing something right since Smoke’s strangled groans are taking on a decidedly desperate quality now and Lesion is right there with him, teetering on the edge, slowing down so he can savour this moment. Plateauing allows him to marvel at the display before his eyes, the strong muscles, broad shoulders, tousled hair, but then Smoke turns his head and fixes him with such a devoted, loving gaze that Lesion is _gone_.

Slamming their hips flush, Lesion lets out a last blissful moan and feels his abs contract viciously as ecstasy runs through his veins; concentrated pleasure overtakes his consciousness for what feels like an eternity. At the edge of his mind, it registers that Smoke brings himself off while Lesion’s orgasm still has him in its grip, though it becomes relevant when muscles tighten impossibly around Lesion’s throbbing shaft. He pants helplessly, resting his forehead on Smoke’s back and allows for relief to wash over him in welcome waves, and when he realises that he’s currently coming deep inside Smoke, he shudders from a last spike in pleasure.

Smoke gently moves against him to prolong his own climax, prompting Lesion to utter an exhausted growl, and once both of them have started relaxing, they collapse in a heap onto the mattress which is technically too small for two people, making it awkward to rearrange their limbs and find a comfortable position. Lesion drags the other man close and embraces him, wraps a leg around him just in case he still considered sleeping somewhere else.

“Fuck”, says Smoke quietly and snuggles closer, snaking his own arms around Lesion. “That was… unexpected.”

Instantly, Lesion feels self-conscious. “What, the -”

“Well, the whole…”

“You know, I just -”

Smoke lets out an amused chuckle while avoiding eye contact like the plague. “Maybe you should sleep first. Me too. You fucked every bit of logic I still had out of me.”

“If I’d known it was that easy to render you speechless, I would’ve done this sooner.” He buries a hand in soft strands and allows for the full exhaustion to sink in. Drifting off into nothingness has never been this easy.

There’s no way of telling the time when Lesion opens his eyes. He’s surrounded by the oddest paraphernalia in a strange place, and if there wasn’t someone very familiar draped over him, he might’ve panicked a little. A watchful gaze is directed at him, as is a nervous smile. “I hate this”, Lesion mutters and somehow manages to stretch despite the lack of space.

The smile vanishes slowly. “What do you mean?”

With a sigh, Lesion kisses the tip of his nose and starts stroking over any part of Smoke he can reach, lets his fingertips glide over the odd scars everywhere. “Not you. Sleeping without dreaming. It feels unnatural.”

“It’s how people used to sleep for aeons. And you always dream, you just usually can’t remember when sleeping like this.” Appeased, Smoke curls into him like a touch starved dog. It’s a relief to be able to show affection guilt-free.

“Still. I don’t like it.” But Lesion’s long understood the choice: either he feels like he flirted with death each night… or he allows his memories to be altered by whoever is able to access his implant when he sleeps. It’s not as if he didn’t test out the device Smoke left with him, it’s not as if he didn’t take his scanner and found out that the object suppresses some electromagnetic waves, scrambles signals in some way. He knows it cuts off his implant from the network and is therefore highly illegal. Smoke wasn’t lying when he said Lesion could be killed for owning it.

“You need less sleep this way though. Get used to it.”

“I’m a ghost now, aren’t I?” He doesn’t really have to ask, and yet Smoke confirms easily.

“You’ll have to be. It’s either that or die. If you stay with us, you’ll at least live a few years longer. Hopefully.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a terrible recruiter?” Smoke’s smirk is back full force now. Even so, he’s got logic on his side. Lesion is sure he almost went the same way so many others did – which is down. From a tall building. Letting the deaths look like suicides though they’re anything but. The implication is chilling: he wonders what else could possibly be ingrained in people’s minds via their implant. He wonders what already has. “Where did you get these?”

Smoke follows his gaze to the many lines on his body, apparently inflicted with almost surgical precision and forming a ladder. They run down both arms and legs, are visible on his chest and sides, with fewer on his back. “Did you know that lower class citizen receive lower class implants?”, he muses and stretches to showcase his scars. “I do now. When I was younger, I didn’t. Mine was probably some prototype tested on us worthless slum kids. One day, there was something odd on TV. Instead of the usual program, it was some guy talking about crimes no one knew had been committed. Murders that stayed unpunished. Lives that were forgotten. It was streamed in our entire neighbourhood, and everyone was talking about it. Because if it was true, it’d mean a whole fucking lot of shite no one wanted to deal with.”

“When was this?”

A half shrug. “Ten years ago? More? No idea. But the next day, I asked my mum whether we should do anything. And she just gave me this blank look and asked ‘about what?’. She didn’t remember. None of them did, simply brushed it off when I insisted. I felt like – you can imagine. Like you felt when you started putting the pieces together. I figured my implant had some sort of glitch which allowed me to keep my memories, since the man on the telly talked about these blasted chips a lot. And it convinced me that he was telling the truth and someone out there was making sure the people wouldn’t remember.”

Lesion can only guess how Smoke must’ve felt. Unlike himself, the other man had been considerably younger and without anyone he could’ve asked for help or guidance.

“I tried to cut it out.” His voice is even. “Knowing the exact location of it is illegal, just like interfering with it, so I took a lot of tries.” Smoke rubs a thumb over a particularly jagged scar on his left arm. “Still haven’t found it. Fucking shite’s either impossible to find or lodged somewhere vital. The fuckers know what they’re doing. Anyway, I was mostly lying in a pool of my own blood when Jackal found me. Said he read some of my poorly worded messages on a forum and tracked me down – that’s his specialty, you know. Finding people. Doc stitched me up and since then I’ve been with them.”

He recounts his story as if he’d told it to quite a few people already, but Lesion detects some of the hurt behind it. Lost, confused, aching Smoke, possibly in his teens, having his world thrown upside down – it can’t have been pretty.

“I developed the gas grenades as a defence mechanism. Because no matter how fancy and high-tech your stupid uniform is, it doesn’t feature gas mask yet.”

It’s a lot to take in, and still Lesion is hungry to know the full story. “Let’s get up”, he suggests and plants a last kiss on Smoke’s lips. “I want to know what I got myself into.”

“Honoured to count you among us”, Jackal greets him earnestly and follows his words with a handshake. He’s the only one the other ghosts don’t mess with, the only one who needs to ask once – it’s not hard to identify him as the leader. Now that Lesion’s presence of mind has returned, he can take in the well-equipped hideout better. It seems to be underground and shockingly elaborate. They must’ve been active for a long time already. “I’m glad we came in time.”

“Me too.” Despite Jackal’s friendliness, he’s relieved to have Smoke by his elbow. He hasn’t had the time to process the events of the previous night fully. “Thank you.”

“Thank him.” Jackal nods to Lesion’s companion. “He convinced me you were worth recruiting. I imagine you have quite a lot of questions and I’m here to answer at least some of them. Follow me.” They make their way through the large room housing more screens than Lesion can count, displaying blueprints, 3D models, maps, spreadsheets, and a lot more. There seems to be bustling activity no matter the hour. Jackal leads them to one young man, seemingly at random, who takes out his earpieces and stands up as soon as he notices them approaching.

“Mute”, he introduces himself curtly. “I built and perfected the jammers.”

When Lesion throws Smoke a questioning glance, he receives an explanation: “The thingies that take you off the web. The one I gave you. We all have several.”

“Yes. Those _thingies_ ”, Mute repeats with a face like he just bit into a lemon.

Jackal indicates the monitor before them. “There’s something I’d like to show you, Lesion. Something which might help you understand.” Mute obediently sits back down and pulls up an unusually grainy picture which looks like it stems from a long outdated surveillance drone. It shows the inside of a server room, colourful lights redundantly blinking. So far, there’s nothing out of place, except for the fact that it’s bigger than any server Lesion has ever seen.

“What is this?”

“This”, the leader of the ghosts says gravely, “is the Chief.”

Lesion blinks, uncomprehending. “She… controls all this?”

“No. This _is_ the Chief.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow.”

“Also the Mayor and the Head of Court”, Mute adds. And now it’s beginning to sink in, unbelievable as it is.

“ _What_?”

Jackal doesn’t look like he’s joking. “They don’t exist. They’re not real people. They’re a construct carefully crafted by the neural network – or artificial intelligence, rather – which is housed in that server room. Have you never wondered why no one is ever allowed in the same room as the Trinity which rules our entire city?”

Lesion is shaking his head now. This is preposterous. “I’ve seen nurses next to the Chief. I know people who knew her before she became ill. She has a _family_.”

“Does she?” Jackal’s eyebrows rise. “Or does everyone simply believe she does?”

He’s getting light-headed. “You’re saying -”

“Our forefathers thought it prudent to develop an artificial intelligence capable of assisting them in keeping their city safe, that much we know – the rest we can only guess. We assume it proved a little too competent and realised that human error was one of the biggest obstacles in the way of fulfilling its task. Generally, it uses its power for good, acts in the interest of human survival and makes logical decisions. But it got overzealous in its quest to remove singular grains of sand in its gears. You felt the result yourself.”

Yes. He has indeed. Indoctrinating people with suicidal thoughts has apparently proven effective, as has the rest of the system: implants have become second nature, as have all its implications, and therefore the populace has sacrificed independence for convenience, a trend which started long ago. Such far-reaching revelations should cause another fierce headache, should take Lesion another week to fully grasp, and yet he accepts the words readily, surprising himself. Deep down, he knew something was wrong the moment he met Smoke, and the feeling festered and grew with time. Now that he finally has an explanation, it’s deceptively easy to apply it in order to answer a lot of his doubts.

“What’s your goal then?”, he wants to know, earning an approving look from Mute.

“Reprogram”, the young man says. “Adapt the code. Teach a new AI and replace the old one. Whatever it takes to make this one stop disregarding basic human rights.”

“Deleting it might cause the collapse of society”, Jackal adds. “Our everyday life is built on functioning implants – we can’t shut this down and expect the support of the people. Believe me, we’ve tried and we know. For now, we need access to its server and though most security is implant-based and therefore irrelevant to us, the AI’s heart is guarded much better and features both a lot of old-fashioned tech as well as state of the art. This might give you an idea of its location.”

Lesion nods slowly and thinks of the only place he knows riddled with security, seemingly protecting a compassionate woman but in reality hiding something more sinister. “The Chief’s office.”

“Exactly. The Chief’s office. Accessible through it, in any case.”

“This is why you wanted enforcers.” Another question answered. It’s coming together now.

“We’re hoping for your cooperation.”

Three pairs of eyes are directed at him. The implication is obvious: he could refuse. None of them would cast him out and doom him to certain death, and none of them would force him to go along with their plans. But he’d disappoint them.

Most of all, he’s tired of being in self denial and a coward.

“Yeah. I’m with you”, he promises and isn’t surprised not to feel the heavy burden of responsibility. He’s felled a decision and is ready to accept all that it brings – he will do his best and cherish the memories of all those who were lost along the way. But he’s not being weighed down anymore.

The pure joy on Smoke’s face is contagious and the two of them beam at each other for a moment until Jackal clears his throat, looking uncomfortable – much unlike Mute who regards them with a knowing grin. “In that case, I’d like to introduce you to your future partner”, the leader announces. “You two will work together in gaining us access to the server room. She’s still finding her bearings, but I’m sure she’ll be fine soon.”

Lesion follows the direction he’s pointing and feels his heart skip a beat. In the distance, he can see a shock of auburn hair and a painfully familiar face which he’s been mourning for the past day.

And between Zofia’s confused yet peaceful expression and Smoke’s content one, the last shred of doubt whether he’s made the right decision vanishes. He’s joining a war, that much he knows, and he doesn’t feel prepared. But he owes it to these people, owes it to all the forgotten ones and owes it to himself. He’s ready.

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit [my tumblr](http://kiruuuuu.tumblr.com/) for much, much more content or if you'd like to say hi ❤ I'm much more active there :)


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